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I was raised up Congregational,

never found it too sensational;

I'd rather be libational.

That's good enough for me.

(Old Time Religion)

Among the historic paganisms, the libation, or drink-offering, was probably the most frequently-performed act of worship, both public and private.

Today, it still is.

Whenever you're about to drink something, you pour out a few drops first: by way of thanks, by way of honoring, by way of making consumption a sacred act.

Outdoors, you do this directly onto the ground. No matter which god you're offering to, the ultimate recipient of all libations—as of course is only right—is Earth, giver of all good gifts.

Indoors, you use a libation bowl.

When pagans get together—as we did the other night for Full Moon—there will be eating and drinking.

Among the bottles and cans on the drinks table, you're likely to find a bowl. There you'll pour your libation when you're serving yourself. It's the pagan thing to do.

“Has this bottle been libated?” you'll hear people ask, before they take some.

Hey Pagan Artists (You Know Who You Are),

WTF?!?

What's with the circumcised dicks on those Horned Gods?

What could you possibly be thinking, to portray the god of Wild Nature in a state so profoundly unnatural as circumcision?

I realize that—in this land of routine MGM (male genital mutilation)—many Americans have never actually seen a human penis in its intact, natural state.

Ye gods, folks, what do you think (inter alia) internet gay porn is for?

I realize (difficult as it may be to believe) that, aesthetically speaking, some actually do find circumcised dicks more beautiful.

But that's no excuse. A Horned God with a circumcised dick is a contradiction in terms, a lying icon, self-falsifying.

Infant circumcision = violence against boys. Portraying our gods as circumcised sanctifies this violence.

In the topsy-turvy world of the Sabbat, the witch returns to the Dreamtime, in which all social norms are overturned.

At the Sabbat, there are no distinctions of “race,” of sex, of class, of gender.

At the Sabbat, all are equal.

At the Sabbat, if nowhere else, we encounter full social equality.

The stories of those early American Sabbats tell of indigenous, colonial, and enslaved all coming together to dance as one: red, white, black, all equal.

The Sabbat dreams of a new world, a world (as in the beginning) of radical equality.

The Sabbat embodies this dream.

In fact, the Sabbat predicts it.

“Oh, well, that's your opinion.”

How many times, in the anti-authoritarian—sometimes verging on antinomian—ethos of so much of what passes for modern paganism, have you heard a position dismissed with these words?

Implication: All opinions are equal.

But are they?

You're having terrible headaches.

You go to Posch. Posch says: You're stressed out. Here, eat more vegetables, learn these relaxation techniques, and spend 15 minutes meditating every day.

Then you go to the doctor. The doctor says: You have a brain tumor. We need to operate as soon as possible.

Well, Posch has an opinion, and the doctor has an opinion.

Why are there so many witches in the Driftless?

Not hard.

Here, long ago, in ages of ages, and yesterday, the Horned, god of witches, fell like a star from Heaven.

Here he fell to Earth.

Bearing the Fire of the Gods, he landed here on the Mountain that stands in the River Mississippi: one of the Nine Sacred Mountains of the Driftless, the mountain-island known as Black Mountain, Rattlesnake Island, and Trempealeau; called by the Dakota, First People, Bluff-in-the-Water.

There, on top, you may see the imprint of his Hoof to this day, deep-scored in the rock.

There we still gather in immemorial sabbat. Here, in our day, was reborn the legendary witches' sabbat, in all its old terror and weird beauty.

Since when is this Inland Island, the Driftless Land, Witch Country forever.

Gods: how did I get so lucky?

I was talking last night with a dear friend of many years when, unsurprisingly, one of us happened to bring up the Black Book of the Yezidis, a book bound—it is said—in deerskin. (Some say, written in fire on deerskin.)

Not only did the subject need no introduction, but each of us had a favorite verse from the Black Book of the Yezidis: verses, we agreed, that sound just like the Him that we know.

If that's not enough, we could each recite our favorite verse from memory.

His: I am present immediately for those that confide in me, and invoke me in time of need.

Mine: I guide without need of scripture, for my words are written on the hearts of my people.

We laughed in mutual appreciation, two old warlocks. How often in a life is one so privileged, to have such a conversation?

 Twin Cities Pagan Pride 2019

 We gather in the midst of gods.

People of the Waters, my brothers and sisters:

Today we, a sacred people, are gathered here in this sacred place, on this sacred day, to accomplish a sacred work, and this is the nature of that work: to pray for the well-being of pagans, here and throughout the world.

Shortly now we will begin our Procession to that sacred Being, that concentration of Power, known to the First People of this Land, the Dakota, as Minnehaha: the Water That Falls.

There we will make our traditional Threefold Offering to the Falls, and to our offerings we will add our prayers. From here, Minnehaha's sacred waters will bear our offerings and our prayers to Minnehaha Creek, and so to the Mississippi, and so to the Ocean, and to all the rest of the world.

It is the immemorial Pagan Way that offering bears prayer. Today, we make three.

With the offering of water, we pray for Life for the People.

With the offering of meal, we pray for Food for the People.

With the offering of flowers, we pray for Beauty for the People.

For without these three things—life, sustenance, and inspiration—no People can live and thrive.